Life Passes By
by itrymybest
Summary: Kendall had nightmares, each night. He relived the trauma. Logan saw the abuse right in front of him, each day. They're before both dying from the inside out. Slowly.
1. On My Own

**Hey look, I'm writing a multi-chap! I really have high hopes for this. And I promise I'll finish this one.**

**This wasn't supposed to be posted until finals were over, but I wanted to do something for my friend Laura. This chapter may seem like a filler at the moment, but I promise that it sets everything up.**

Kendall sat at the top of the steps outside of his house, lifting the cigarette to his lips. He took in a breath of the nicotine-filled drug, chuckling as he breathed out. He saw the puff of smoke rise upwards. He loved watching it fly up high, then slowly dissipate into the air. He liked to form shapes with the cloud, imagining it to be something childish, silly even. This time, he saw an ice cream cone, with a double scoop of vanilla. He smiled as the smoke disappeared, and was replaced with nothing. It was a metaphor, really. The ice cream was his dreams, and then they left, crushed by the natural order of things.

He laughed. Being an English major, everything was a metaphor. It was drilled into his head in middle school, high school, college. It was always there. He couldn't go two minutes into a book without considering the hidden meaning behind the author's words. Because there was always a double meaning to everything. He knew it all too well.

Kendall shivered, but made no motion to go inside or get his jacket that was sitting within arm's reach. He hated the cold with every fiber of his being, though. But he loved it. He loved the torture.

He pulled his cargo pant clad leg up onto the porch, leaving the other hanging loosely on the stairs. He frowned when he realized he'd have to put salt on the stairs. Kendall wasn't a fan of responsibilities. He chuckled again as he remembered the times when he didn't need to worry about responsibilities. Back when he was still a kid. He could hatch a plan to get out of doing any work. He'd always find a way to trick his mom out of making him do the chores. For the time, anyway. Within an hour, he'd be back where he started, taking out the trash, or doing the dishes. His mom was the hardest to get around. James and Carlos were a close second, though. They'd call him out on most of his plans, mostly because they knew his way of thinking. But, when they were the ones thinking with him, they had no problem with helping execute each and every plan. Because it was fun. When you grew up in Minnesota, you'd take every little ounce of fun you could get.

Everyone else was manageable to trick, his friends, most of the kids at school, his old teachers, he made it around all of them with a smooth voice and quick wit. They loved his charm. Throw in a wink too, and he'd get away from homework for a week. Albeit, he always had to do the assignments. Damn those big projects. But, he'd be lying if he didn't love the rush of staying up the night before, trying to get at least a B on some work he pulled out of his ass. The stress calmed him. He ached for it.

But now, who would he be plotting against? Himself?

Because when Kendall would stand up to enter the warmth of his house, he wouldn't find his sister, his mom, and obviously not his dad. He'd find an empty house. But he was used to it, at least he tells himself he is. But in reality, there's no way to get used to loneliness.

Kendall rubbed his cheek. The guy he was fighting earlier had a ring on.

Before, when they were still kids, James and Carlos would come over all the time, or he'd go to their house. Though, there was no denying that everyone loved to be at Kendall's house the most. His mother was the most accepting, his sister was the most comfortable to be around, it was like a family away from their own families. But now the Knight house just meant memories that no one wanted to revisit.

Kendall sat on the steps for ten more minutes, and shut his eyes for that time. He put the cigarette out on the ice after taking one last swig of air, and again made a shape. The smoke was a bunny this time.

Stupid fucking happy bunny. They're like the ones in Katie's room. Because it's still Katie's room, no matter it all, it's Katie's room. The master bedroom is still his mom's room. Kendall had locked the doors to both of the rooms, and hadn't entered them for years.

He ran his hand through his sticky blond hair, cringing at the feel. He'd need to shower soon. Kendall grudgingly stood up, picking up his coat. He let out a deep breath before he entered his house, throwing the jacket onto the hook behind the door. He went to the washroom quickly and brushed his teeth. He scrubbed until his gums bled. He needed his mouth to smell of mint, his mom would kill him if she found out he smoked.

He looked at himself in the mirror, but averted his eyes immediately. He didn't want to see himself any longer. He was a mess. He had a cut down his lips, and there was a gash on his arm big enough to get stitches. So he went to the medicine cabinet and got out a band-aid. His eyebrows were caked with blood, and there was still mud left over on his face from when he had been shoved to the ground. His cheek had a mark from the punch. He traced his finger over it, flinching from the pain.

He knocked on his mother's room door.

"Mom, I'm home. Don't bother getting up though, I'm going to shower now anyway," he said. He hoped for a response. But he knew he wouldn't get one. There was no one in the room, anyway.

Kendall walked into the bathroom, chuckling dryly at how bright the colours of the bathroom wall were. He did every time. Light blue and orange. They were supposed to bring happiness or some shit like that. Kendall had long ago become numb, happiness was just a word. Like love. Hah.

Kendall turned the shower on full heat, and waited for the washroom to start warming up. When he felt the sweat beads start to form on his brow, he shed his clothes and took a breath before entering the searing hot water.

It hit the cuts on his face too hard, and he took in a sharp breath as the stinging grew. The pain just built. He barely noticed the burning on the slashes down his torso and legs. It had been some hell of a fight. He looked to the floor of the tub, and saw the dried blood run down the drain. The bathroom had started to get a red tint to it after far too many of these kinds of showers.

He stuck his hair under the showerhead, even more blood running down. He had been slammed into a brick wall at some point, he didn't remember when. Kendall picked up the loofa sitting on the edge and scrubbed each cut thoroughly. Well, each cut that deserved attention. The one which need stiches, which he probably shouldn't have put a band-aid on earlier, considering that it went down the drain in his shower. One on his head. Two on his torso. One on his calf. The rest were measly. They barely went down a half inch. When Kendall washed the cuts, he'd run them under water. Gently caress them with his fingers. Then he'd rip them all open with the loofa. Let water into his blood stream. Then he'd blow.

Kendall may be numb. He may not feel emotion. But he'd be a dirty fucking liar if he didn't say that he'd rather be run over by a truck than scrub each one of these cuts under burning hot water. But he did it, because he wanted to keep the pain and scars. Because he'd much rather feel pain than nothing at all.

He turned off the shower and stood there for a moment longer, basking in the lack of hot water. Kendall looked down and counted his ribs. He didn't know why he did. But, at the back of his mind, his subconscious knew. He loved to torture himself. He loved to see himself rotting away, day after day. He got pleasure from pain.

His own pain.

But his logical mind reminded him that he'd never inflict it upon himself. Kendall scoffed at cutting. It was a cheap way to let out your emotions. He laughed at people who cut, calling them cowards. The front of his brain couldn't wrap itself around why people would cause harm to themselves to feel something.

That's why he never let himself dwell too long on why he let himself turn numb from the cold, why he got into fights over stupid little crap, why he poked and prodded at the bruises and scabs, why he ripped apart each one of his cuts from the fights, why he showered in water so hot that his skin was red and screaming for help after.

Because if he thought too long, he'd know that this was his outlet. His way to feel. His way to be alive. His way to cut. But he didn't cut, because he wasn't messed up. He was sane.

He told himself that every night. Right before he got his nightmares.

Kendall wrapped himself in the towel hanging on the rod, and walked over to his room, dripping all over the floor. He'd mop it up later, or Katie might slip. He threw open the door to his room, letting the cool breeze from his open window consume him. It was winter out. He changed slowly, letting his eye fall over his scars. He laughed at them, remembering how he got each one as he put on a pair of shorts.

He grabbed an old t-shirt from his room, one that was much too small for him to wear. It was from when he was still 5'6". Around two years ago, his mom had given it to him for no rhyme or reason. She just did.

Kendall went out to hallway, and got on his hands and knees – which were still throbbing from the shower – and started to wipe away the water. He grumbled about how cleaning was too strenuous. A minute later, he deemed himself done, and threw the shirt back into his room before running down the hall. He had to make sure it was safe enough for Katie not fall.

But of course Katie wouldn't slip. She was dead.

As Kendall walked down the stairs, he knew she was. The front of his mind, the back of his mind, hell even his fucking toes knew she was dead. But he liked to pretend she wasn't. So he walked down to the kitchen, and pulled out a pan. He cracked six eggs into it, two for him, two for his mom and two for his sister.

While it hardened, he grabbed two pieces of bread, just for him. His mom and Katie hated toast. He put them in the toaster quickly, before going back to the eggs. They had started to burn, but only slightly. He flipped them, and stood in front of the stove, holding the handle of the pan.

When the eggs were done, he pushed the pan to the back burner, letting the rod sit above the front one. He took the toast out of the toaster, and threw it on a plate, also grabbing two more. He pulled the butter from the fridge, taking his sweet time to find it, when it was sitting right in front of him.

He went back to the pan, and picked it up, ignoring every sense of his screaming to drop it. He whistled as he poured the eggs into his plate, the one with toast, and put the pan back down on the stove. He absentmindedly ran his hand under cold water, and went to go bandage it. The blisters would hurt.

He wrapped the gauze around his hand, taking a sharp breath when he wrapped it too tight. But it'd only be worse if he didn't bandage it properly. Kendall went back down to the kitchen, and put Katie's plate out first. He put his mom's next. He sat down last, but sighed when he realized he forgot the forks. Kendall got three, and kept them next to each respective plate.

Kendall clasped his hands in prayer. He thanked God for the food on the table, and for his health. He thanked God for everything he'd ever given him. He thanked the Lord for the nightmares at night. He thanked God for his dead mother and sister. He thanked Him for his fucker of a father. He thanked Him for the memory of two years ago. He thanked him for everything he'd ever gotten.

And finally, he thanked God for treating Kendall's life like a joke. Kendall thanked Him for laughing at Kendall's pain. Because that's what God did, in Kendall's opinion. He laughed at Kendall and his sorrow.

After uttering an _amen_, Kendall picked up his shiny fork and let it clank against the white plate as he scooped up a bite of the egg. It had turned out much better than he thought it had. His other hand rested on the rich table. He chewed bitterly at the class of it. It was expensive, it was beautiful, and it was elegant. As was the rest of the house.

But the fact that it was expensive meant one thing. It was big.

And Kendall hated big. It meant empty. It always had, and it always would. He'd spent the last two years empty, like this fucking house. He slammed his bandaged hand on the table, not even taking a moment to consider the pain as he stood up, and screamed "HELLO?"

He wanted to hear the echo. He wanted to hear the terrible stillness of the house, he wanted it to consume his everything thought. He wanted to be reminded of just how lonely he was.

Because what Kendall was dealing with wasn't your regular type of self-loathing, and hate. It was self-inflicted hate. Self-inflicted hate was something he could always depend on, because he chose when he could make it flare up. He decided when he'd hate himself. It was stable. It was good.

He looked out the French windows behind him to see it was starting to get dark. He finished his eggs quickly and put the plate in the sink.

"FOOD'S GETTING COLD!" He called, half-expecting to hear feet running downstairs. Even two years later, he waited to hear it.

He told himself that Katie and mom were just tired, but they'd be down later. Kendall put the plates in the refrigerator, leaving a little note on the table.

_Food's in the fridge! Eat up, or I'll finish it tomorrow._

He strolled to the couch, and picked his feet up. He never let them hang below. There was a space underneath the couch, he couldn't risk it. Kendall surveyed the room. It had been exactly two years since it had happened. He remembered exactly where his mom sat, and where. He looked to his left where Katie had sat, flipping through a comic.

He wasn't ready for the memories though. He pushed everything back down, bolting from the room when his mind started to drift to what happened later. He threw open the house door, running onto the street, not bothering to shut the door. He shut his eyes when he ran, knowing that if a car was coming, he'd have no way of knowing. He ran until he tripped at the other end of the road. There had been no car.

His brain told him that he wasn't trying to commit suicide. It told him that he was in a rush to check the mail, so he walked to the mailbox a few meters away. He shivered. It was still freezing, and his shorts had probably been a terrible idea.

Or a good idea, in Kendall's subconscious.

Realizing he didn't have the mailbox key, he went back inside. He shut the door behind him and sighed. He'd get the mail another day. He grabbed a glass of water. The memories threatened to come out in one tumbling mess, but he couldn't handle it. They'd be just as bad as his nightmares. He lifted his burnt hand and slammed it against the counter, yelling from the pain. The hand had started to blister over, apparently.

He guaranteed himself two hours away from _feeling_. From remembering. He sank to the floor, clutching the injured hand and held it against him. His mind and body were consumed with thoughts of the pain. He emerged himself in the pain, his brain building it to be three times as strong as it really was.

Because the brain could do anything it wanted to.

Hours later, he let the pain subside. He was half asleep at that point, exhausted from running his mind in overtime, turning the hurt in his hand in torture. But it was over now. He was alright. Sort of. In reality, he was never okay.

He dragged himself up the stairs, getting more and more tired with each step. He prayed that he'd be too tired to have nightmares. He hoped that he wouldn't have to relive the time that had been haunting him and following him around for two years.

Kendall went into his room, slamming the door behind him. He stepped out of his clothes and slipped into his pajama pants and white t-shirt. He had taken then out of the wash in the morning, and had let them air dry. He cringed at the feel of dry, crusty pajamas hitting his cuts from the fight.

He took his time getting ready for bed, thinking only about the tasks at hand. He overanalyzed the process of brushing his teeth. He spent ten minutes thinking about why his curtains were purple. He planned out cleaning his room. He'd start from the farthest wall, move to the left where the desk sat, then follow the counterclockwise pattern around the edges. Then he'd vacuum up the middle. Kendall debated each and every part of cleaning.

His eyes went to the clock. It was midnight. He wasn't quite ready to go to bed.

Kendall went downstairs to do the dishes, avoiding the living room. He left his head down as he passed the dreaded place, darting into the kitchen to his right. He didn't want to risk it. He pulled out the sponge, and went over to the sink. He sang under his breath. He let himself get lost in the song, not remembering what he was doing, or why he avoiding sleep.

He took far too long to wash a single plate. Half an hour later, he deemed it shiny enough to eat off of. He picked up the egg pan, the cool, smooth handle a huge difference than the searing heat it held earlier. It calmed him.

He scraped the bits of egg that was still stuck on into the garbage bin, and went back to scrubbing. He saw there was an ant still on the pan. He washed it away under the tap, resuming his singing. He switched songs, and murmured the lyrics under his breath. His voice escalated as the song went on, and the twists of his hands became quicker and more frantic to clean. He repeated the song again and again. Finally, he was belting it out and finishing up the pan.

He took his time on the rest of the dishes as well, which weren't many. Two more plates, tree bowls, another pan, and some cutlery. He set them on the drying rack and looked to the clock over the stove, reading the red _1:03_.

He had plenty of time to spare, so he grabbed a cloth and started to dry the utensils. Another half hour passed. He could either watch some TV in the living room, or go to bed. He shook the former out of his mind, he couldn't go back in there. But the latter didn't seem very appealing either. Kendall looked down at his pjs, sighing that he should do the laundry again sometime soon, but actually put the clothes in the dryer this time.

He went to the hooks behind the door, and picked up his jacket. It was much too light of a jacket for this weather, but he didn't care. He slipped it on, and reached to the other end of the door where there a small, wooden table. He grabbed his house keys and watch, then stepped outside. Locking the door behind him, he took in the cold air.

He glanced down to check the time, sighing when he saw it was only 1:15 now. He shut his eyes and walked. He knew the entire neighborhood well enough that he wouldn't need to see. He just needed to hear for people that he might walk into, he was in no mood to get into another fight. He'd never let himself get into more than one fight in a week, anyway.

His hands buried in his pockets, he let the chill seep through the holes in his jacket. He'd made the holes himself, and hadn't bothered to get a new jacket. He could easily afford it, he just didn't. His eyes stayed closed as he rounded the bend, knowing that he'd pass the convenience store. He stopped outside of it.

His mind trailed away to a memory of him as a young boy, holding his mom's hand as he pulled her into the store. It was his first time being allowed to go into the grocery store, because his parents always feared that he'd become too worked up and demand ice cream or chocolate. Kendall had proven to be a handful, but still a good kid. Kendall smiled as he remembered politely asking for chocolate ice cream, and upon being told 'no', he devised a plan into tricking the owner of the small convenience store to give it to him for free.

Then Kendall saw his own car drive by, himself sitting in it. He thought he'd got a second chance at the dreadful day of two years ago. Kendall shouted to get his 18-year-old self's attention, stepping forward to the centre of the road. He chased his car down, screaming for it to stop. He followed it all the way to a red light, and he reached out to touch it, panting heavily from running for so long. It dissappeared. It was just a stupid mirage.

What else had he expected it to be? He hadn't gone back in time or some shit like that, he was just over-tired and sad. Kendall looked around, and realised he was down by the lake. He picked up some snow in his pale, frozen hands and played with it for a while. He let his hands become numb, it'd be better for the walk home if he didn't feel the sting of the cold. A while later, he took in a breath of the crisp air, and walked back to his own house. He didn't want to check the time.

By the time he reached the convenience store again, he was close to collapsing. The fight, the running and the lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. He shut his eyes again as he walked. His house was only another twenty minute walk away, anyway.

He didn't need to open them at all for the rest of the walk, knowing exactly where he was. He turned into his driveway, and hopped up the stairs. His feet were moving too fast for someone who didn't want to get anywhere near his bed. But he didn't want to be in this godforsaken cold, either.

Taking off his shoes, he felt a cold cloth up against his leg. He looked down to see his pajamas were soaked with mud and snow, and he he sighed as he realised he'd have to change, again. He noticed a pair of sweats on the couch, he'd left them there earlier in a rush to change and get out of the house for university.

He changed in the family room – it didn't matter where he did. His mom and sister would be asleep at this point anyway. Kendall dragged his exhausted self upstairs. He saw the time before he threw himself into bed. _4:19. _He needed to be up in less than three hours. Good. His nightmares wouldn't be able to last too long tonight.

He shut his eyes, teriffied of the night to come.

**Wow, I actually had the full next day planned out to write in this chapter, but it was getting far too long. I liked the place I ended it, anyway.**

**I'm not planning to introduce Logan until chapter 3 or 4, so if you're going to stick around until then, I really do love you. **

**Anyway, I hoped you liked this!**


	2. Get Out Alive

**Here it is, sorry for the long wait!**

**I hate the first 469 words, but after that, I started to enjoy this story again. Please don't blame me for that part, I know it's terrible.**

The sound of a music box began the day.

Kendall woke up to it, gripping his sheets tight. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to regain his breath. His mind was reeling, trying to adjust to leaving the nightmare. They were getting worse. Each time, he was close to the end, and he didn't ever want to get there.

Kendall shook his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve – the salt from the sweat was stinging. He slowly crawled out of bed and to his desk, where his open notepad and pen sat. He shakily reached forward and pulled the smooth pen into his hand, and stared at the blank page. He knew he'd forget what happened if he didn't write it down.

That was the weird part about his nightmares. He'd forget everything within minutes, but he didn't forget the pure terror he woke up in. The feeling of wanting to reach out and stop everything from happening – stop him from breaking his cell phone, stop him from going to night school, stop him from not calling the cops – it overtook him completely, and he hated himself for hours after each nightmare.

Writing out each nightmare took him ages, because he had the instinct to write it in story-format. He'd grown up writing tales spun out of his own imagination, caring for each and every detail. Now he did the same, except it wasn't the back of his brain creating everything. It was everything he'd done.

He took in a deep breath, and wrote down the full nightmare. His hand shook through each word, smudging the paper.

He was halfway through the recollection when he began to cross things out. He was forgetting again. He was losing the memories, so he started to write frantically. His script became near to unreadable, but he didn't let his writing style falter. Not matter how much he rushed, he wouldn't cut out on the details, the little pieces that made a story, a story.

When he completely blanked, he sighed and put down the pen again. He looked at his collection of three pages before him. It was near to being completely scrapped – what he wrote was almost impossible to read. He reached into his drawer, and put the fresh set below the thick stack already in it.

Kendall looked to the clock, realising his classes were going to start soon. He all but ran to his closet, grabbing the first set of clothes he could find. He threw them on, then stood in front of the mirror, fixing his hair quickly.

He sighed at his appearance, grabbed his bag, and ran downstairs. Kendall quickly put on a pair of vans, and picked his keys off the table next to the door. He ran down the steps to the driveway, and suddenly there was no ground below his feet and then there was hard, gray asphalt beneath his hands which had dived out to protect his face.

He had forgotten to salt the stairs. Shit.

Then he mentally smacked himself in the face because he'd used a noun as a verb, and you just _couldn't_ do that. Dr. Jank – a rather unfortunate name, Kendall thought – would've smacked him in the face if he had written something like that in a paper, with no sort of character to back it up, because if he was writing in the perspective of say, Ulliver Oliver, this might've made sense.

Then Kendall mentally smacked himself in the face for forgetting to finish the next chapter of _Refrigerators _– a working title, Kendall had yet to figure out a suitable name – which he was immensely late on. Kendall picked himself off the ground, and out of some weird, messed up calculation in his mind, a thought gone horribly wrong, he started to run to school. His car sat two feet in front of him. His keys were gripped losely in his hands. But he ran.

He flicked hair out of his tired eyes, and in two quick strides, he was on the road. He looked down at his feet (it helped him run faster if he looked at them, he always found himself angry that they weren't moving fast enough), and took off into a sprint. He still hadn't looked up when he swung a sharp turn to the left.

Kendall would've been an odd sight for anyone. An extremely tired and lanky 20-year-old, running through the middle of the road at 8 in the morning (actually 7:45, but Kendall wouldn't know that, he'd forgotten his watch at home), without a jacket, in the middle of winter. In fucking Biwabik, Minnesota.

Good thing Kendall was crazy, because it would've been really weird had he not been.

His dim green eyes remained locked on his feet as he quickened his pace, thighs screaming for a break. The thought to have actually taken his car crossed his mind, but he shook it away. He didn't have time to call himself and idiot and smack his forehead for being so_ dumb, _but who could blame him? He hadn't slept more than 3 hours a night in weeks, maybe even months, he'd lost count, really.

He turned again, right this time, and knew he was only half a mile away from the university. Orange Mill University, it was named, no one had any idea _why_. There weren't any mills in a 20 mile radius, and even if there were, who'd ever heard of an _orange_ mill?

The University was used by Biwabik, and three other small towns. They'd all pitched in, and paid for a mediocre University with mediocre teachers and mediocre classroom and mediocre education. Because who the hell from _Biwabik_ gave a flying fuck about learning, anyway? Other than Kendall, of course. It wasn't his life, or anything like that, but he thought it was important enough to care about. So he did care.

Growing up in _Biwabik_, it was either care about _something_ and find a _passion_ and an _ambition_ and a _drive_ and run with it…

or watch some grass grow and poke insects with a stick. The town had 942 people, for God's sake! There wasn't much to do.

As Kendall approached the front door, he stopped and rested his hands on his knees as he took in a deep breath, and wiped the sweat from his furry, brown caterp- er, brows. Walking inside, there was a hop in his step and a whistle playing across his lips because he had English first, and he could sit there and learn the fundamentals of being great at something he loved with every square inch of his soul. He approached his class – room 34, right down the hall from Psychology 12 – and took a quick look around, sighing happily when he realised that the teacher had yet to come in, and with a quick glance at the clock, he found that he wasn't even late yet.

He sat down at his desk and shook the cold feeling off when he realised he'd forgotten his lunch. His mom would've made sure he had it.

One of his two best friends nudged him in the shoulder.

"You were almost late, you know," Carlos said. Carlos was a Latino with big brown eyes and perfect puppy dog pout to match. His tanned and caramel-coloured skin contrasted Kendall's own paleness in all of its glory. A top his head sat short, black hair with a hairline that was climbing up his skull day by day. The boy was definitely going to bald one day.

"No, really?" Kendall said sarcastically, playfully rolling his eyes.

James chuckled before looking Kendall up and down. "The bruises are bigger than I remember," he observed.

"Nah, they ain't that bad," Kendall assured James, disregarding the pure pain and terror and godforsaken horror of a shower he'd forced himself through the day before. "Aren't" he corrected himself.

James had always been overprotective of Kendall. He and Carlos were two years older than the blond, and they'd be graduating at the end of the year. Kendall would go through his junior year of university alone.

Before James could argue with the blonde, the bell rang and Dr. Jank strolled into class.

"Good morning students. Look alive!" He said cheerily, as the class sat up straighter in their seats and lifted their pencils to begin the day's lesson.

* * *

Half an hour into the period, most of the students were drifting off, heads lolling against the back of their chairs as Jank droned on.

James leaned over to his left to whisper in Carlos' ear, but keeping his eyes fixated on the teacher before him – he didn't want to get caught talking again. "We need to do something about Kendall."

Carlos shot a look over at the blond, seeing him hunched over his desk, scribbling notes like his life depended on what a university teacher who taught in Nowhere, Minnesota had to say on the fine art of creative writing.

"What about him?" he whispered back, looking at James now.

James gave Carlos a blank stare, debating whether or not the Latino was serious. He couldn't not have noticed Kendall becoming quieter, or that he was fighting more and writing less, or that he was starting to push away the both of them.

He turned back to the board, deciding that the discussion was too important to be having through hushed whispers in English class, the subject of their conversation two seats to the left of him.

The class passed slowly, and James was glad when the bell rang and he could spring out of his seat. He grabbed his bag from behind his chair, and impatiently waited for Kendall and Carlos. Carlos and Kendall shoved their books into their bags, and strolled out of class, bidding a "bye!" to their teacher as they left.

They parted ways at the door, Kendall having World History next and Carlos and James with Biology. As James and Carlos walked down the hall, James nudged Carlos. "Dude, you do know there's something up with Kendall, right?"

Carlos nodded. "Of course I do. I just didn't want to talk about it then when he was sitting right next to me."

James chuckled. "He wouldnt've heard a word we said, he's too busy with the whole story-writing shit."

* * *

Kendall didn't bother even lifting his head as his World History teacher went on about Ancient Italy. Or was it Ancient Germany? Was there an ancient Germany?

He didn't notice the knock on the classroom door, he was too lost into the next chapter of _Refrigerators_. His fingers flew across the page, scribbling down details of Ulliver's newest discovery, but a voice repeating his name broke him out of his train of thought. He quickly finished the sentence before looking for the sound of the noise, seeing Dr. Jank at the door.

"Could I see you for a minute?" the professor asked.

Kendall nodded numbly and stood up to join the brunette teacher, following him out to the hall.

"Now, I'm very sorry, because I shouldn't have done this without your permission…" he began, as he took out an envelope from his coat pocket.

Kendall stood, confused. He accepted the white paper in his hands, running his hands over the seal. Slipping his thumb under, he ripped open the flap, and after slight struggle, he pulled out a three page document.

"Go on, read it out loud," Dr. Jank said encouragingly.

Kendall shot him an odd look before returning to the paper, still having no idea what it was about. "Uh, dear Kendall Knight, congratulations…you have been accepted for a transfer to Columbia's English program…" he repeated, eyes popping. "I-uh-what?" Kendall asked, looking down at his teacher.

"I know the dean of the English department there, and I sent him your last creative writing assignment and your last essay, and, well. You got in," he said, as Kendall could only stare, dumbfounded. "You have real potential, Kendall. You need to attend a school where you can further everything you know, and expand your knowledge. You need a better opportunity than this shithole of a city, and you _need _to get away from everything that's happened to your family." Kendall cringed at the mention of it, turning away and trying to process everything that just happened.

"But- Columbia? This is insane! It's an Ivy League, I- don't know." His eyes dropped to the ground. He couldn't just leave his house, he couldn't sell it.

"Listen, think about it. Don't decide now. Talk it over with your friends."

Kendall nodded and thanked the teacher before returning to class. He didn't hear a single word his History teacher said for the rest of the lesson.

* * *

After classes for the day were done, Kendall leaned against James' car, waiting for the pretty boy and the Latino to come outside. He hadn't wanted to see them in his spare periods or at lunch, so he'd gone to the field behind the school to think. He'd read the letter at least thirty times. He thought he knew what to do, he just needed to go over it his best friends.

The blonde saw them approaching the car, so he smiled lightly as he went through what he was going to say again.

"Guys," Kendall said solemnly, and James and Carlos shared a worried look.

"What's up?" Carlos asked.

And in that moment, Kendall forgot the full speech, and the only thing he knew to do was to thrust out the hand bearing the letter, let them read it, and hope for the best.

James took the pages and started to read it, the Latino leaning over to try and see the paper too. Their eyes went wide as they finished the first few lines.

"Well thanks for telling us you were applying for a transfer," James shot, giving the letter to Carlos so quickly that it could've been on fire. He pushed past Kendall to his car.

"James, _I_ didn't apply. Jank did, for me."

Carlos was patting Kendall on the back, murmuring a congratulations during the staredown and silence that followed Kendall's confession.

"So you're gonna leave?" Carlos asked, after another minute of quiet.

"I don't know. I wanted to talk to you guys about it."

James leaned against the car, next to Kendall, running his fingers through his hair. If Kendall left, he'd lose his little brother. He didn't want him to go, but at the same time. This was an amazing chance for Kendall to do something with his life. He could get away from all of the shit his dad left behind.

The brunette slung an arm around Kendall's shoulders and leaned into him. "Do it."

Kendall broke into a smile, giving James a quick hug. Kendall knew he wouldn't let himself leave without James' blessing.

Carlos grinned too, glad to see that the two were happy and getting along. "We could visit too! Or even come to live with you!"

Kendall started to laugh at the older's suggestion, before it hit him that they _could_ live with him. They'd be out of university next month, meaning that they'd be needing jobs soon. "Carlos, that's actually a great idea."

James slowly nodded, trying to work out the details. In New York, they'd be able to get good jobs, and their parents couldn't stop them, not that they would.

"So, guys. What do you think?"

James and Carlos smiled at each other. "Let's go to New York."

* * *

The rest of the school year flew by. James and Carlos had talked it over with their parents, and they'd agreed to let them go. James and Carlos were itching to get out of the small town, and they'd graduated the week before. Kendall was still freaking out about leaving.

They'd all bought the New York house together, Kendall and James easily affording it, slyly giving Carlos a very small amount to pay. Carlos wouldn't have been able to afford his full share, so Kendall and James told him that he had much less to give than he really did. They'd cover the rest of the cost.

They were leaving in one hour. Kendall sat on the floor in his empty room, the moving truck had already come to take everything to the new house, and the guys were meeting it there.

There was one box he was taking himself, filled with all of the stories he'd ever written. Kendall stood slowly. He walked over to the door, placing his hand on the knob and taking a deep breath. He turned it, and stared down the hall at the closed door of his parent's room.

He hadn't sent any of his parent's or sister's stuff to New York, because after a lot of thought, he'd decided not to sell this house. He could afford keeping it. And he _couldn't_ sell it, no matter what.

He started towards the master bedroom, determination set on his face. He reached the door, and paused before summing up all of the courage he'd built up as he thought about doing this, twisted the handle, and threw it open.

He looked at the messy bedroom. He apprehensively stepped inside, before breaking into a short run to reach his mom's side of the bed. He lifted the old bedsheet, which was covered in dust after not being touched in two and a half years.

He ignored the fact that it was still covered in old, smelly dirt, and climbed into bed. He shut his eyes as he remembered running into the room as a child, crying for his mom because he'd had a nightmare, and she'd pull him into her arms, and coo him back to sleep.

He absentmindedly turned to face where his dad slept, and through his closed eyes, he saw his father lifting a beer bottle above his head in a fit of rage. Kendall fell off the bed, snapping his eyes open. He ran out of the room.

He shut the door behind him, and stared at it for a moment. He was lost in thought, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He yelped as he turned, swinging his fist to collide with someone's cheek.

"Fuck!" said James, clutching his wound.

"Dammit man, don't scare me like that."

"I'll remember that next time. Holy shit, dude."

Kendall laughed dryly. "What're you doing here anyway? You haven't been here since- well, _it_. And how'd you get in?"

Carlos appeared at the top of the stairs, jogging up them. "We wanted to say goodbye to the house. We practically grew up here too. We missed it. And we still had the spare you gave us back in high school."

"You wouldn't have missed it if you came over every once in a while. D'you know how fucking terrifying it is still living here?" Kendall bit.

"Listen, man, we're sorry. Mind if we walk around here for a bit?"

Kendall sighed. "Don't go in the master bedroom or Katie's room."He power walked over to his own room. He needed to get out, and go far, far away. He picked up the box, groaning with its weight. He went down the stairs slowly, and went straight outside. _Don't stop, go._

He threw open the front door, not bothering to turn around and look at the house. He didn't want to. He set the box down on the porch as waited for James and Carlos. When they emerged a few minutes later, he locked the main door, and pocketed the key.

James reached down to pick up Kendall's box, only to have his hand slapped away. Kendall grunted, and picked up the box, mumbling about how James wouldn't be careful enough with it. He carried it over to the cab, and waited for one of his friends to open the trunk so he could load it in. Once Kendall did, he yelled "SHOT GUN!" and attempted to run into the passenger seat.

Carlos all but shoved him into the car door, before jumping into the seat and screaming "YES!"

Kendall rubbed his shoulder which had been checked into the car, and stepped into the back seat. James filed in next to him.

"Airport?" the cab driver double checked.

"Yup. Let's go," said Kendall, looking down at his feet.

* * *

Dave Knight tapped his feet impatiently in the police car, squirming in his seat. The officer next to him told him to sit still.

Late, late, late.

He'd gotten special permission from the judge after months upon months of begging to see his son. Dave had heard about the transfer to Columbia from an anonymous phone call, and he'd gone straight to the highest officer available at the County Jail and pleaded his case. It'd taken 6 months to get a "yes."

Late, late, late.

The police car rolled to a stop, and the officer to his right grabbed hold of one hand, the left police officer grabbing the other hand. They shuffled out of the car, Dave slightly cringing under the strong grip of the burly men. They roughly yanked him over to the door.

Late, late, late.

The shorter officer rang the doorbell. Once. Twice. Three times.

Late, late, late.

The same officer reached into his pocket to pull out a key, inserting it in the lock. He opened the door, and shoved Dave in. The criminal stood dumbfounded as he saw the empty house.

He was late, late, _late_.

And then he was falling to the floor, the officials letting go of his hands. He awkwardly placed them in front of him, ignoring the pain in his wrists because he'd never felt anything worse than knowing he was late, late, _late_.

He banged his hands against the floor.

Dave hadn't cried after he realised what he'd done. He hadn't cried when he heard the sirens outside. He hadn't cried when the officers had burst in and arrested him. He hadn't cried when he was taken to jail. He hadn't cried when he had been interrogated. He hadn't cried when the bars had slammed shut in front of him, and he knew he would be in there forever.

But he cried then.

He wailed, he sobbed, his breathing coming out in short rasps. He was thrashing on the ground, screaming for mercy from God, but he knew he didn't deserve any. Tears and snot rolled down his face, and the officers just laughed at how pathetic he looked.

But he was pathetic. Expecting forgiveness, and expecting to see someone that he had absolutely no right seeing.

Kendall was gone.

Late, late, _late_.

**And there was chapter 2! I hope you liked it. By the way, you'll meet Logan next chapter.**

**It would be really lovely for you to review!**


End file.
